The How & the Why

by Cynthia Hand

  “You think my birth mother is a sleeping dog?”

  She doesn’t answer my question.

  “I wouldn’t be searching for another family, Ny,” I say carefully. “You’re right. I already have the best family.”

  “Good.”

  “I want to find out more about my birth mother because . . .” I take a breath. “I guess I’m searching for myself.”

  “Okay. If that’s what you feel like you need to do.” She frowns and flops down again. I lie down, too, wondering if she’ll tell me what she’s thinking about now, but she doesn’t say anything. She obviously doesn’t get how I feel. Which is hard, because Nyla usually gets the adoption thing more than anybody else.

  It’s been different for Nyla, though. All my life people have been telling me how I look like my adopted parents—they assume I’m their biological child—and all Nyla’s life she’s been practically walking around with a neon sign flashing over her head that says ADOPTED.

  So I guess it makes sense that we’d have different feelings on the subject.

  I didn’t even tell Nyla I was adopted until we’d been friends for like a year. The topic came up one afternoon at the Hendersons’. Mama Liz was making an enormous pot of palm butter soup—about once a month she tried to have a “culture night” and make Liberian food so that Nyla would feel connected to the place she’d originally come from. I could never tell if Nyla liked this attempt to understand her “African roots,” as Mama Liz called it, or if she hated it, but she always ate the food without complaint. Anyway, Nyla and I were sitting at the big oak table in the kitchen, the air around us full of unfamiliar spices, and we were talking about how we’d done this blood typing experiment at school, and I’d discovered that my mom had this rare blood type. Which would turn out to be part of why it’s been difficult to find a donor.

  “I’ve never even known anybody with AB negative blood.” Mama Liz turned to me. “Do you have it, too? What’s your blood type, sweetie?”

  “O positive, I think.”

  “So your father is O pos. That’s lucky.”

  “Actually, I think my dad’s B positive.”

  Nyla and Mama Liz both looked at me like That makes no sense.

  “I’m adopted,” I explained.

  “Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Mama Liz. “I did not know that. Well, doesn’t our Heavenly Father work in mysterious ways?” She beamed. “It’s another thing you and my Nyla have in common.”

  Nyla didn’t say anything to me about it until later, when we were supposed to be asleep, sort of like now. I was stretched out on her trundle mattress, thinking about how my mom and me had like opposite blood types, and what did that even mean, when Nyla’s voice cut through the dark.

  “I was three,” she said. It took me a second to understand what she was talking about.

  “I was six weeks old,” I answered.

  Then we both sat up and told each other everything, every detail we knew about our lives before we’d come to Idaho Falls. I told her that my birth mother had brown hair and blue eyes, like me. The stuff my parents had passed along. Which apparently came from a form.

  Nyla told me that her birth mother’s name was Bindu, but she didn’t remember what she looked like, exactly. She didn’t remember much of anything before her relatively happy life here in Idaho. She also told me that culture night, with the fried eggplant Mama Liz cooked up and the spicy chicken gravy, sweet potato greens, and fufu—a kind of bread—didn’t make her remember Liberia any more clearly. But she liked the food.

  “It’s awkward,” I remember she told me. “They expect me to connect with my heritage and all that, and I don’t know if I can. But I guess it’s better than them acting like I came from nowhere. At least they try. They care.”

  We stayed up talking until two in the morning, and we didn’t bring up our adoptions much after that. But it felt like something changed between us that night. Our friendship deepened. There was a new layer of connection that we shared. We’d both been lost, in a way. And then we’d both been found.

  Dear X,

  So that last letter might have been out of line. Just a smidge. I know. I tried to get it back, actually, after I gave it to Melly, but she said she’d already turned it in. Sorry if it was TMI.

  I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, if that’s not obvious. Maybe the ultimate effect of these letters is that you’ll be really glad I gave you up. Maybe you’ll read all of this and think, wow, did I ever dodge a bullet with this girl.

  I can’t disagree.

  “Seems like you have something to say, after all,” Melly said this morning as she was driving me in for my checkup. “Writing all these letters.”

  She was smiling like, I told you so.

  “I’m bored,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “I am.”

  “Okay. That makes total sense. You’re writing to your baby because you’re bored. But why not write letters to someone else, then? Or write in a diary? Why the baby?”

  To be honest, I don’t know. It’s not like I’m changing my mind about the adoption. It’s not like I’m bonding with you.

  “There are things I want the kid to know,” I said to Melly.

  “About you?”

  “Yeah, and about other things.”

  “What other things?”

  But that’s none of her business, is it? “Hey, can you stop being a social worker for like five seconds?” I asked.

  “Sure. What should I be, then?” Melly said. “What role can I play for you today?”

  “Maybe a chauffeur. Preferably a quiet one.”

  I thought that was pretty funny. And the upside was, Melly didn’t talk to me again for the rest of the drive.

  I hate these visits to the doctor. First there’s the waiting room, which is always filled with couples looking so out-of-control excited about being parents, or couples with their baby looking so completely thrilled to show everyone, like it’s some big accomplishment, having a baby.

  Getting pregnant is not that hard. Trust me. People do it every day. Every second, even. There’s probably been like five hundred babies born in the two minutes that you’ve been reading this letter.

  But back to the waiting room. There’s this look everyone else gives me in there, this judgmental gaze, which starts at my clearly teenage face and moves to my belly and finally travels to my naked ring finger. Which always makes me want to show them a different finger. And the one time I did that Melly went all red-faced like she was the one who was embarrassed.

  And then there’s the weigh-in. No girl anywhere ever liked a weigh-in.

  After that they ask me a bunch of questions about how I’m feeling and take my blood pressure and poke and prod me and make me pee in a cup. And then we listen to the heartbeat. That’s always the weirdest part. There’s my heart going all slow and steady and then suddenly I can hear yours, this quick-quick-quick sound, and the doctor smiles and Melly smiles and the nurse smiles, and one of them inevitably says, “That’s your baby.”

  But all that time, I’m usually thinking, That’s not my baby. You don’t belong to me. I’m thinking about you in there, the size of a mango, they say, and growing bigger every second, and you can hear things now, they say, like my voice, like a dog barking, like a vacuum, and your lungs are developing this week and your fingers aren’t webbed anymore.

  See. You’re an alien, X. That’s how it always makes me feel.

  So today, I got to skip the pee thing. Which was pretty awesome. But after all the other stuff was done, I started to sit up, to get my clothes back on and whatnot, and the doctor said, “Wait a minute. We haven’t gotten to the best part.”

  “The best part?” Uh-oh. I had no idea what that could be.

  “The ultrasound. Don’t you want to see your baby?”

  It turns out that wasn’t a real question. I couldn’t say no, I mean. They had to like count the chambers in your heart or something.

  I told them I ha
d to pee. Which I did. I always have to pee these days.

  They told me it was better if my bladder was full. It would push you up a little so they could get a better picture. This is why they didn’t make me pee earlier.

  I had an ultrasound before, but it was months ago, and I couldn’t really tell what I was looking at. But this time it was different. No offense, X, but your head was gigantic in comparison with the rest of your body. I could see your skull, and your eye sockets were huge. You absolutely did look like an alien, like one of those aliens in the abduction shows, the gray ones with the big black eyes.

  The doctor moved around so we could see all the little white bones in your spine. Your leg bones. Your feet. At one point you stretched so we could see like a perfect footprint, and that was the weirdest thing ever, because you had the feet.

  Everyone on my dad’s side of the family has the same feet. My grandfather, my dad, me, my older brother, all of us. My mom used to call them “duck feet” because they’re narrow at the heel but wide at the toe, and all the toes except the pinky are basically the same length across. The second toe is as long as the big toe, the third toe as long as the second, the fourth only slightly shorter.

  So I was on my back staring up at this blackness on the screen and suddenly I saw a duck foot. The square toes.

  I’m so sorry about the weird feet.

  Then the doctor said, “Would you like to know the sex?”

  And I said, “Huh? I already know about the sex, thanks. Obviously.”

  “No, no.” He laughed. “I mean, the gender of the baby?”

  “Oh.” My first instinct was to say no. I try to keep it light, you know? I try not to get too . . . involved. I think it’s better if you’re an alien.

  But then I was curious, and I said okay.

  “It’s a girl,” he said.

  “You’re sure?” Melly asked.

  “Well, it’s not as easy to identify as it would be if it were a boy. But yes. I’m ninety percent positive. There’s a baby girl in there.”

  I stared at the screen. I couldn’t see the feet anymore. I couldn’t see anything.

  The doctor moved around again, so we were looking at your head. A side view this time. I could see your nose. I think you might have Dawson’s nose, this little ski jump kind of nose.

  “Is she sucking her thumb?” asked Melly.

  “Yes,” the doctor said, and then I could see it, too. You were totally sucking your thumb in there.

  “We believe thumb sucking is genetic,” the doctor said. “Did you suck your thumb as a child?”

  “Nope,” I said, but that wasn’t true. I don’t know why I lied. I guess I didn’t want to go into it. I sucked my thumb all the way up until kindergarten. It messed up my teeth. It was because of the thumb sucking that I ended up having to wear braces for a period back in junior high that I’d prefer to forget.

  This time I was the one who was quiet on the way back to Booth. Thinking. Feeling you moving around. I’d felt you move before, but it always felt like gas, or like a goldfish swimming around in my belly. Not a person. Not even an alien.

  But you’re not an alien.

  You’re a girl.

  The doctor printed me a picture of you. Some of the other girls here—the ones who are keeping their babies, anyway—post these pictures on the inside of their lockers, or frame them, even. Heather had hers taped onto her headboard, so she could look at it while she was in bed.

  I’m going to give this to you, though. Like a pre-baby picture. It can be the only picture that exists of the two of us together.

  S

  13

  “I must leave you,” Bastian says, his face hovering above mine.

  We’re finally blocking the make-out scene. I have a feeling it’s going to be my favorite. There are five kisses between us in this part of the show. Five. Then he lifts me into his arms and carries me off. And now we’re at the part where we roll, making out, from upstage to downstage.

  It’s a funny scene, and it’s fun, too, but it’s mildly terrifying. At least we don’t have to actually kiss yet. When we get to the part in the script where it says we kiss, we both kind of lean forward toward each other, like we’re going to kiss. But then we don’t. Because we’re high school students, and this is a Mormon town, and so we’re encouraged to keep the actual kissing down to a minimum. The real kissing will happen later, like a week or two before the performance, later. Which is still a few weeks away.

  “Let’s try that again,” says Mama Jo from where she’s standing in the front row of the house. She’s got that pursed-lip expression she gets when she’s trying to articulate what she needs us to do. “I want three rolls, and then Bastian, you end up on top.”

  Awkward. Bastian and I go back to our starting position, then drop down onto the stage floor and put our arms around each other again. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. I don’t know what to do with my legs.

  So: awkward.

  “I should have brought breath mints,” he whispers.

  “Oh. Uh, sorry.”

  His dark eyes widen. “For me. I meant for me. Not for you.”

  He’s so completely and utterly attractive in every way. It’s hard to ignore from this vantage point.

  “Okay, go,” Mama Jo commands, and the music starts up.

  Bastian and I hold on to each other and begin to roll downstage. It’s difficult to control, but we manage one rotation, and then another, and another, and then we stop and Bastian lifts his head.

  “I must leave you,” he says again in the prince voice, which is deep and hilarious, and I can’t help but laugh.

  “That’s great,” Mama Jo says, laughing, too. “But I think we should try to get the roll a bit more smoothly.”

  “Do people actually do that?” Bastian asks quietly, just for me. “Do they roll when they’re making out?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t.” I’m blushing, I’m pretty sure. He’s still on top of me, resting his weight on his arms so he doesn’t squash me. Mama Jo hasn’t told us to try it again yet or to move on. She’s having a deep discussion with the stage manager about the logistics of the rolling. Or maybe we shouldn’t roll, even, because that’s, um, suggestive. Maybe we should be standing up instead and spin onto the stage.

  “Spinning’s not going to be easier,” I whisper. I’m liking the rolling, truth be told.

  “You have great lips,” Bastian says.

  My breath catches. His face is inches from mine. His breath smells like Italian salad dressing, which isn’t bad at all. And he’s staring at my lips.

  “They’re like a perfect bow,” he says.

  I’m definitely blushing now, aware of our legs all tangled up together. I should say something about his lips, shouldn’t I? Just to be polite? Or his eyes, which are a very dark brown and reflecting the points of light around us in a way that makes them seem like they’re sparkling. But what could I say: “You have great eyes?” Could I pull off that level of obvious flirtation? Am I ready to make my move? I mean, we’ve known each other for a few weeks. By now Bastian’s been seamlessly integrated into our little theater-nerd group. We eat lunch together most days, joke around in choir, hang out before and after rehearsals. He doesn’t stare at me anymore, that I can tell, but he still seems interested.

  Maybe he’s waiting for me to make the first move. I should totally make the first move.

  “All right, let’s stick with the roll, so try it one more time and then keep going,” Mama Jo calls out before I get a chance to say anything at all.

  Bastian helps me to my feet. We walk ten paces upstage, then lie down again. The music starts, and we roll. Roll. Roll.

  “I must leave you,” Bastian says, and jumps up, brushes off his pants. Then he starts talking about the giant he still has to slay, and I ask if we’ll ever find each other again in the woods, and he tells me that this was “just a moment in the woods.” That he’ll never forget me. That I made him feel so alive. And the
n he’s off, and it’s time for my big solo. After which I will die.

  I cock my head slightly to one side. “What was that?”

  Mama Jo laughs at my delivery. “Good,” she says. “Carry on.”

  “You’re awesome,” Bastian tells me as we’re breaking for lunch.

  I feel my cheeks going hot. It’s weird and embarrassing. I don’t generally have trouble talking to boys. I open my mouth. Words come out. It’s easy. Sometimes with Bastian I feel like in this strange way I’m acting out a scene in a play, but it’s my life. This is my scene with Bastian Banks, already written down, and we’re performing it together. The Cass and Bastian show. In which Bastian just told Cass that he thought she was awesome.

  “Why thank you, kind sir,” I reply, because that’s good writing right there.

  “Do you like pie?”

  “Huh?” Or maybe not so good writing.

  “Pie. Like pumpkin. Cherry. Lemon meringue. I could go on, but—”

  “Oh, that pie. Well. Who doesn’t like pie?” I’m more of a cake person, but I can be flexible.

  “I’m going to Perkins for lunch. Would you like to come?”

  “Yes.” Oh my God he’s asking me out, isn’t he, sort of, maybe, finally? But then I remember that I already have plans with Nyla. I wince and close my eyes for a few seconds.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “I mean, I’d like to come, but—”

  He nods, too, and then turns and hollers across the theater. “Hey, Nyla! You want to go for pie?”

  “Uh, okay?” she calls back.

  I beam at him. He wanted to ask me out—but he also knew that he should invite Nyla. He really is perfect.

  He turns back to me. “So?”

  I laugh and nod. “Let there be pie.”

  “We missed you two at rehearsal Thursday,” Bastian says about an hour later around a huge mouthful of chocolate cream pie. “What happened?”

  “We were on a road trip,” Nyla says.